the intervals of falling snow
by seireeii
Summary: There's nothing but her, the snowflakes, and his sea blue eyes. — Shinya, Akane. (Spoilers for episode 16.)


**notes**: The things this anime—actually, it's just _Kougami Shinya_—and the fandom do to me. All of my feelings following episode 11 and leading up to and encompassing episode 16 are in this story—I've been working on this story since episode... 12 came out? But I've never had enough inspiration to finish it until today. So, hopefully you Shinya/Akane or just Psycho-Pass fans enjoy this.

**notes2**: I own _nothing_ (anime, characters, layout, etc.).

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**the intervals of falling snow**

_your heart is everywhere. _

.

.

.

His voice tastes salty—his tone is blue, his stance a cross between deep, deep, violet purple and darker sapphire, his heart a pale, white sheet to the wind around them. She can taste the feel of his words on her tongue, weigh them against her own, pry them apart and analyze the pieces before filing them away for further inspection.

She trusts him with more than her life. She trusts him with everything that makes her whole, in this world governed by colors and pigments of the mind and soul. She knows he knows she believes in him—it's ever present in his posture against the wall, in the sly, modest way he holds his cigarette in between his lips, the way his azure-silver eyes seem to drift toward her as he stands beside her, never leaving, always within reaching distance. She knows he wouldn't shy away from her like a frightened animal—flinch a bit, perhaps, simply because he's no longer familiar to things such as a woman's love and hold—but the chastity of the distance between them is enough.

She doesn't need him to come any closer, she can already feel his strength, warmth, and power sinking into her frail, fragile, delicate bones. She knows she needs this—needs _him_—and knows he needs her as well, but she can't bring herself to breach the semblance of breathing space between them. It's a constant thing; she can hold it in her hands as if it's tangible in her fingers. He always places it into her hands whenever they're together.

He shifts beside her—just a slight movement of his shoe against the wall, another action of sliding his left hand into his pocket, the feel of his breath sandpaper against her lips. He's everything she's not allowed to have, but wants anyway, a hollow, broken creature struggling to fly. His blue eyes glide atop the snowflakes drifting to the earth between them, landing on her amber ones. She raises her face to his winter-kissed gaze, and nods soundlessly.

"I know," she says, rising to her feet. She dusts off her skirt, adjusts her blazer and dress shirt, straightens her tie. They're all mechanical actions, and though she knows he notices, he doesn't say anything of them.

There's nothing but her, the snowflakes, and his sea blue eyes.

—

He can see the dynamics shift between them, _feels_ them shift with his senses, his heart that pulses and beats in her hands. He's timid—he settles in the same stance he always takes, his cigarette finds its way to his lips. His voice is as salty, and raspy as ever—he notes the flicker of her eyes as she turns to face him, a docile, fragile thing upon the frozen cement—his tone is still as blue as the ocean they're gazing into.

But there's something different this time.

And he's _afraid_ of it.

It starts when she corners him with her auburn eyes, touches his arm so, so, so softly, crossing the threshold of the distance between them. His fear festers in his core as her other hand reaches to the side of his face, brushes his dark, dark, dark hair back from his azure eyes—he can't back away from her, and he knows she knows it—gently, gently, gently, her hand caresses his cheek, it's a welcome action, whether he wants to admit it or not.

He watches her push herself up onto her tip toes. He hears her fingertips reach for his cigarette, pulling it from his lips, his blue eyes wide, terrified, frightened. He stiffens against her, his hands cupping her elbows, preparing to push her away. Her warmth is too close; it's heady in his lungs, honey on his tongue, solace to his eyes—

"We—I—_can't_, Inspector."

—she silences him with a soft, gentle kiss in the cold.

Her lips taste salty, he notes, his eyes falling shut, his arms quivering at her sides. He can't hold her, he can't surround her—not support, this _isn't_ supporting and comforting. This just _isn't_. It can't be, when she's crying as she kisses him long, soft, deep, and slow, her breaths choked against his solid, though scarce ones. Her heart's throbbing against his own, matching beat for painful beat, touch for frosted touch, kiss for powdered kiss. She's so small, fragile in the unyielding mold of his form, his stance refusing to bend, or break against her—he knows she wants him to wash away the pain, as only a man can.

But he _can't_.

Not when… not when she's suffering, not when _he's_ suffering.

She _has_ to understand that.

Her amber eyes meet his cobalt-silver ones in the fractured moonlight, his fingertips grazing the inscrutable curve of his lips as he gazes at her, his irises cold, and hard, and resolute. The feel of her skin against his wavers against his resolve, a small, smoldering flame threatening to set him ablaze from the inside, but he manages to keep his voice solid—saltier than the sea breeze buffeting his face, chilling her breath on his lips—when he gently pushes her back from his breathing space.

"I can't, Inspector," he whispers, his tone blue, his heart dark, dark, dark sapphire. His eyes are downcast, ashamed, burdened.

Where has all his strength gone?

"You can if you want to, Kougami-san," she responds, her palms trembling against his cheeks. "I _need_ you to."

Even though he knows he can't refuse her, he shakes his head, "It's—We're—I'm not… _human_ anymore."

"You _are_," she chastises softly. He leans heavily against the wall behind him, powerless without the will to fight. "You _are_ human, Kougami-san. It's not a crime to want something as human as comfort, or to give someone else solace in your presence. You're strong, even though your heart is so cold."

_Let me warm you, over time. _

—

His stance is as quiet, hesitant as ever against the wall at her side—she quickly glances at him as he settles next to her, blowing air through his teeth, his cigarette still between his lips. She can see the faint trails of smoke blow from the smoldering edges, chilling only when the snowflakes kiss the embers as gently as they do the sides of his face, his lips—

"Inspector."

She jolts back to herself, averting her gaze. His presence isn't as relaxed, as constant as it used to be before she stole that kiss from him. She's sure he's angry with her: there's something black about the feel of him, as if his entire body's become shadow, something intangible, she can't hold him in her hands anymore. She doesn't feel him next to her, doesn't see him in the powdered glitter dusting the air. She still smells him though—she inhales deeply, leaning her head back against the wall.

She does notice his gaze on her. She does notice the hesitant curve of his knees as he kneels down in front of her. She does notice the softness of his palms against her face, the gentleness of his thumb on her eyelid, compressing over the modest swells of her lips. She knows he won't kiss her. She knows he won't, but wants him to anyway, knowing that it's wrong, knowing that he won't allow himself to give in to her again. She knows she crossed the line, and needs to apologize for it, but how can she?

She _loves_ him so, so, so much.

But she knows that he can't bring himself to love her back, even though she knows that he knows he does. It's in the azure hue of his gaze, steadfast in his eyes, wavering upon his voice, holding his breath close to the sides of her face, ruffling her hair in the cold. She knows he does, knows he wants her and needs her and can't give her up—_why can't i just let him have me?_ Before she knows it, she's crying, and he's brushing the tears from the corners of her eyes with a gentleness and tenderness only a man in love can muster.

He _loves_ her so, so, so much.

"Kougami-san," she whispers, leaning her forehead against his. He—his eyes fall shut, his handsome face twisting into a deep, deep, scarred frown—doesn't resist her, waiting for her to continue, to finish, to whisper into his ear. He wants her too, he needs her too, he loves her too. "I'm sorry."

"I don't blame you," he responds, his voice low, husky, tired, somehow. "I should have stopped you."

"But I—"

He shakes his head, pulling back to look her in the eyes. His irises are steady now, the blue hue back, the saltiness of his voice subtle, but strong. He tastes winter-kissed on her tongue—she leans forward despite herself. He doesn't pull away, he doesn't fight her as she brushes her lips against his, barely touching them, barely taking them, halting just short of melding and fusing with them. She knows he's testing her.

"I know this is… unprofessional, but, Kougami-san, I don't want you to _ever_ put yourself in danger like that again. I know that the circumstances were horrible, and that it was the only thing you could do, but, I also don't want you to blame yourself for what happened. It's not your fault," she says, soothing the wounded man kneeling in front of her. He breathes into her lips, cold and filled with mint, traces of smoke, but _Kougami Shinya_ nonetheless. "We need to focus on finding him and bringing him to justice."

He doesn't respond for a moment. But when he does, she catches her breath: "You don't have to be strong for my sake, Inspector. If you keep it bottled up inside, you'll cloud your Hue."

_Is he… offering to comfort me? _

"You did everything you could," he whispers, sliding his left hand into her hair, "didn't you?"

She forces herself to nod—it's mechanical in nature. He notices.

"I won't run away this time," he coaxes.

She doesn't respond—she can't, it's impossible. Her voice is self-defeated.

"No. I won't run away _anymore_."

—

And when it comes time to finish this, to end his suffering, and her suffering, she can't bring herself to do it.

It's _wrong_—

the _Sybil System_ is at fault for this—

—he's _just_ as much a victim as Yuki is.

She can't blame him for wanting a life of freedom and happiness, a life that isn't dictated by a machine programmed to sift through the abilities of its citizens and place them into appropriate quadrants based on their probability of success. She can't blame him for that—it's not in her nature. But the unconscious black-haired man lying just beyond Yuki's murderer needs closure just as much as she does. She knows he does, but her hand won't fall. Her hand keeps trembling.

She hears his voice rise from the floor once more, barely audible amongst the racing of her heartbeat: _"Inspector… Kill him."_

She falls to her knees beside the both of them, pulling her handcuffs out and binding the murderer with tears in both eyes—this isn't closure, this isn't justice, this isn't repentance. This is _self-indulgence_. This is sparing her hands from becoming sullied for the sake of herself—Yuki doesn't deserve self-preservation, this man _slaughtered_ her. She needs justice; she has no use for mercy.

Once Akane finishes binding the white-haired man, she turns to the raven-haired Enforcer, and drops her forehead to his chest, and listens to the rhythmic sound of his breathing, his heartbeat, breathing in the smell of his blood, but remaining where she is regardless. She never should have let him go alone—Akane raises her left wrist to her glistening brown eyes, and initiates a call.

Gino's face pops up moments later, along with a desperate, "Inspector Tsunemori? What's your status?"

The man beneath her's breathing remains constant—she can hear his voice in her ears, _i won't run away anymore_.

"Makishima Shougo has been arrested. I'm requesting medical assistance—Kougami-san's severely injured."

"Good. I'll send drones to your location, and meet up with you as soon as possible." As if sensing her doubt, he adds, "You did the right thing, Inspector Tsunemori."

Akane can only hope Shinya will understand. She can only hope that Yuki will forgive her. She can only hope she'll be able to live with herself for denying both of them closure.

"Thank you," she whispers, ending the call.

She raises her head, and gazes down at Shinya's bloody, exhausted face—her tears won't stop falling. There's no end to them, they're ceaseless. But there's nothing she can do. She can only hope she made the right choice. The right choice being: leave Makishima Shougo's punishment to the Sybil System, as ordered. And despite the feeling of security that erupts from deep inside, she's not satisfied. She's just _not_.

But she _can't_ compromise her Hue—Shinya has to understand that.

She wraps her arms around him and lays her head down on his fragile, delicate pulse, his breath warming the top of her head, his blood wetting her cheek, his strength—though frail, and subdued—pouring into her. With him close, she finds it in herself to cry wholeheartedly, to release her tears, to allow her Hue to grow as cloudy as it can without breaking the limit line. She feels safe with him close, she feels protected, and warm, and undeniably _human_.

With Shinya in her arms, she implores Yuki for forgiveness.

—

When he wakes up, she's beside him—her head is heavy on his chest, her hands are holding onto his, her tears are soaking his blue shirt. The air smells clean, aside from the soft, light taste of her perfume. He's in the hospital, there's no other way of explaining the bandages wrapped around the top of his head. She's crying so heavily—_is she wounded?_

A hand barely reaches the side of her face. "Inspector Tsunemori?"

At the sound of her name, her head jerks upwards.

"Kougami-san?"

She breathes his name once, as if making certain that it's him, not another person. Her grasp on him tightens—he feels it circle his entire body; sink into his pores, giving him strength. She doesn't need to say it. He already knows.

"I'm sorry," she sobs, choking her words out against his ear, her tears soaking his cheek. The only thing he can do is lay his hand on her back, and close his eyes. "I—I couldn't do it."

He isn't sure what he's supposed to feel. Angry. Sad. He doesn't know. There aren't any words; there aren't any emotions strong enough to describe how he feels. The only thing he can do is comfort her, to be there for her. It's not obligation that drives him to remain a steadfast, constant presence—he loves her, and he knows he does, and he feels it bubble to the surface of his skin, tracing the slope of her back as he strokes her soothingly, gently. There's nothing they can do in regards to Yuki and Sasayama's justice, and closure.

There's nothing they can do but wait for the next chance.

**.**

**end.**

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**notes**: Reviews, as always, would be _glorious_.


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